My Total Collapse

Though survival isn’t my story, it is my soup. A bubbling cafetière of pre-mixed seasonings,  parmesan rinds, two heads of garlic, carrots, onions, mushrooms, eye of newt, Willy’s secret,  Joey’s hair journey, the door, pushed open, his fire, swelling the doorknob, my total collapse, an  ear of corn, deep dark waves, salt, the chestnut tree, Doug and his forearms, squirrels and their  coffee, elves and their cigarettes, Baby Hope and her scene cuts, the action, the smell of it, the  strawberry patch, two ice giants, the dog kennel, the dog show, red and white mulberries, the  drinker’s nose, bark of the plane tree, nothing of yours, beeswax, and a wooden spoon to stir it  all together.  

The maid scurries out onto the veranda and fills each guest’s cup. Morning sun dull in the back,  tousling the lawn awake. The smiling party quietly recounts their late night, and plots their  simple day in the country. Perfect, now put down the coffee cup and smirk at her as you respond  to the other guest’s joke. You’re waiting for a look from her. Perfect.  

Now you’re sleepy but blissful, slowly recline and nod, 

and take a bite of the best croissant you’ve ever had in your life,  

yes, 

now look at him,  

give us a little smile, 

that’s perfect, 

cut.